


I'm a graduate chemist; I think I can figure out a potato

by dogandmonkeyshow



Series: Watson's Woes WAdvent 2017 fics [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Dinner, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 19:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13060695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogandmonkeyshow/pseuds/dogandmonkeyshow
Summary: Sometimes it's the simple things that resonate the most strongly.





	I'm a graduate chemist; I think I can figure out a potato

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Watson's Woes (on DW) WAdvent Christmas gifting extravaganza, Day 18.

*T minus five hours*

“Are they usually that big?” Sherlock asked.

“I've seen bigger ones,” John replied, perplexed by the question.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock didn't sound convinced. “That's the biggest one I've seen.”

John looked down at the subject of the conversation. “Yeah, I've seen bigger ones than that. _Way_ bigger.”

“Really?” Sherlock spread the legs of the turkey carcass and peered into the body cavity. “And what do you propose to put in there?”

John scoffed. “Seriously? You don't know—” Sherlock's smirk told him he'd been had, _again_. “Fuck off,” John muttered as he opened the cupboard to take out the box of stuffing mix.

“'uck off!” Rosie crowed from the kitchen table, where she was covering herself in glue and glitter, thanks to one of Mrs Hudson's less well thought out gifts.

John pointed at his daughter. “Great. Thanks for that.”

“She lives in your house. You knew it was going to happen eventually,” was Sherlock's unfortunately incontrovertible defence.

“Yeah, well, if she says it at daycare, I'm sending Mrs Muhammed to you for the apology.”

“Not a problem. Women love me.”

John just rolled his eyes as he took the vegetable peeler out of a drawer and handed it to Sherlock.

“What's this for?”

“Peeler, plus vegetables.” John pointed at the bags on the other counter. “Equals side dishes.”

“That's an interesting notion of hospitality: turning guests into vegetable-wallahs.”

“You're family, not a guest.” He dug a bag of potatoes out from the bottom of the pile. “Start with these.”

An odd expression crossed Sherlock's face for a moment, then he pulled himself up with an “into the breach” bravado. “All right, then.”

“Please tell me you know how to peel a potato.”

“I'm a graduate chemist; I think I can figure out a potato.”

“Right.”

John turned to the instructions on the back of the stuffing mix box and with only a hint of trepidation, left Sherlock to it.

 

*T minus four hours*

“It's not my fault your pipes are defective. You should sue the builders—” 

“It's not a 'defect' for pipes to get clogged when you shove a pound of potato peels down the drain.”

“How was I supposed to know? I'm a detective—”

“Not a plumber. Yeah, I get it. Which is too bad, as a plumber would be handy right now.”

In unison, they turned to stare at the sink full of dirty water that refused to drain, the odd bit of brown peel slowly circumnavigating the sink, mocking their efforts to unplug it.

“Basic physics—” 

“I'm a chemist, not a physicist. If this was likely to happen, you should have warned me to not get peel down the drain; I'm not in the—”

“History, astronomy—I guess we can add physics and plumbing to the list.”

The sour, almost shrewish expression Sherlock sent his way told John he might have gone a bit too far. “Okay; I guess we're just washing the dishes in the bathroom sink, then.”

 

*T minus three hours*

Sherlock handed John his phone. “Mrs Hudson.”

John smiled as he took it. “Hi, Mrs Hudson. How's your Christmas?”

“Oh, it's lovely dear. A bit of rain this morning, but the sun's shining now. Mabel was able to get us an upgrade so we have an ocean view. How was your Christmas morning?”

“Great, great.” John watched Rosie tuck into the cheese sandwich Sherlock had made to tide them over until dinner. “Thanks for the gifts for Rosie. You really shouldn't have spoiled her so much.” John hoped the glue attaching the glitter to the side of her face, her hands, the table and the floor was water soluble.

“Oh, it was as much a treat for me. I haven't toy shopped in ages—since Mabel's boys were young.” She paused for a moment and John heard her talking away from the phone, probably to her sister. “Oh, Mabel's got the daiquiris out on the patio, so I should fly. How's the cooking going?”

“Fine. Just about ready to put the bird in the oven.”

The pregnant pause from the Mallorca end of the line elicited a ripple of concern in the back of John's mind.

“Oh, that was clever of you to get a small turkey. I always end up with leftovers for a week.”

“Uh—” John turned to the seven kilo bird sitting on the counter, stuffed and ready for the oven. “Yeah.” Then he glanced at his watch. “It shouldn't take more than two, two and a half hours, I'm guessing.”

“Oh, you must have got a really tiny one, then. I remember when Frank was—well, we always had a houseful, with all our friends over. I usually did one about eighteen or twenty pounds, so I was up with the larks, bird in the oven even before we opened presents.”

“Uh huh.” John tried to sound casual as he asked, “So, how long does a bird that size take?”

“Oh, about four and a half hours. Then you have to let it rest for an hour before you carve it, of course.” Mrs Hudson paused for a second and John thought she might very well have seen through his insouciance. “I'm surprised Sherlock hasn't looked it all up on the internet. You know how he likes to research things,” she trilled down the line and John heard the almost-masked sympathy in her voice. “I'm sure it'll be fine and you'll have a wonderful Christmas dinner.”

“Yeah, thanks. Look, I'd better let you go. Wouldn't want your daiquiri to melt.”

She laughed. “Not to worry. Give Rosie a kiss from me.”

“Will do. We'll see you next week.”

John rang off. “Shit,” he muttered, calculating they might just manage to eat the damned bird some time on Boxing Day.

“Shit,” Rosie aped before taking a bite of cheese sandwich.

Sherlock waggled a finger at John, who flipped him a V.

 

*T minus two hours*

“Come on you bastard, cook already,” John muttered, staring through the oven door window at the turkey, which looked exactly the same as it had an hour ago.

He heard Sherlock walk up behind him. “Are you open to a suggestion for facilitating the process?”

“Are you claiming you know how to cook? Because I've never seen you make so much as beans on toast.”

“I'm a graduate chemist, of course I know how to cook. The application of heat to elicit oxidation.”

“Yeah, okay; whatever.”

Sherlock reached over and pushed a few buttons. “You might want to consider turning the oven on.”

John smacked his head on the counter, twice.

 

*T minus one hour*

“Dragon Inn's closed. So is Emerald Gardens, Golden City, and Foo Hong's.” John flapped the handful of takeaway menus. “You have any suggestions?”

“Really? Where are all the Jewish people eating today?”

John decided he wasn't in the mood to chase down that rabbit hole, so ignored the question. “We could do Thai.”

Sherlock did a remarkable and probably unintentional imitation of Mycroft's notorious “where's that awful smell coming from?” expression. “No. Try the Flying Carp.”

“Closed for renovations.”

“Madam Woo's.”

“I thought they'd been shut down for running drugs out of their kitchen. You told me that, actually.”

“Yes, I told _you_ they were running drugs out of their kitchen; I didn't tell the police.”

“What? You—oh, never mind.” John picked up his phone. “Hey, lets go out to eat instead of getting takeaway.”

Sherlock glanced at his glitter-covered goddaughter, then cocked an eyebrow at John.

“Yeah, point.”

 

*T plus one hour*

Stuffed full of Madam Woo's finest (but not her “special stuff”), John sat back on the sofa and watched Sherlock teach Rosie how to play Three Card Monte. Looking around the room, John thought that maybe he should make an effort to clean up the mess—takeaway cartons, dirty plates, random piles of torn wrapping paper and mangled bows—then said “sod it” to himself and took another sip of his beer.

“Queen!” Rosie crowed as she pointed to the middle card on the floor between her and Sherlock.

Sherlock turned the card over; indeed, it was the Queen of Hearts. “Yes!” he called out like a carnival barker as he raised his arms in victory, mirrored by Rosie, who fell on her back from the effort and from giggling so hard. John couldn't help laughing along with the madman training his daughter to be a card shark. Questioned, Sherlock would just excuse it as teaching her observational skills, or something else equally spurious. John didn't care; it couldn't be worse for her than watching TV.

This was it, John realised. _This_ was what he'd been looking for, and it had been right in front of him all along.

No matter what he did, there would always be an absence in his life, an empty chair at his table where his lost soulmate should be. But in the absence of a Tardis that could take him back to _that_ day at the Aquarium, this was as good as it was going to get: his daughter happy and healthy, and his best friend more comfortable with himself and his life than John had ever seen in all the years he'd known him. This was enough. More than enough.

Molly and Greg had been right: this was what he needed, and all he had to do was to be there for both of them, and love them, and all the rest of life would sort itself out in the end. And if it didn't, he had the (second) cleverest man in London and the cleverest little girl in the world to help him set it to rights.

~ + ~


End file.
